She is standing on the edge of what precisely: the leading edge of night or the trailing edge of a winter day, the selvage of a bitterly cold field in the Lanark highlands, the deftly stitched hem of a shiny new calendar year? Perhaps she is standing on the threshold of a fey insight of some kind, a wild and canny knowing?
There is something out here longing to be known, or at least recognized, but the night is too cold to linger by the fence and entertain puckish or arty thoughts. One could not grasp a pen, a pencil or a sketchbook if her life depended on it. The camera, on the other hand, is clear of eye and lens and unwavering in its commitment. It lights on and then dwells lovingly on every tump of snow, each strand of rusty wire and burnished blade of winter grass, every mist wrapped spruce and floating cloud of golden sundown light.
That is what I would like this brand squeaky clean new year to be all about, just showing up and being fully present when I get here, just loving what I see and not imposing my imperfect self, my mediocrity and feeble preconceptions on what is already perfect.